


A Hobbit's Grief

by imtoogay4this



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imtoogay4this/pseuds/imtoogay4this
Summary: Bilbo returns to the shire, and can't seem to move on. A hobbit's grief.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Gandalf | Mithrandir, Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins & Thorin's Company, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	A Hobbit's Grief

The first thing Bilbo notices when he returns to the Shire is the lack of noise. Traveling with a company of dwarves, there was always a lot of it. Shouting, cursing, hearty laughter and friendly tussles were there every day. Now, in Bag End, he’s alone for the first time in many months. It’s way too quiet. 

Sure, there is the sound of chirping birds and the sound of the occasional cart passing by on the road. There is the sound of the babbling brook and the whistle of the wind when he goes for walks. Occasionally, he’ll hear feasting and merrymaking from his neighbors down below. Still, something is missing. 

He hears it sometimes when he goes to sleep, or if he closes his eyes, the deep timbre of Thorin Oakenshield’s voice. Then he begins to remember. He’s transported back in time to another place. Where he was one of fourteen, and not a householder alone, in a place that doesn’t fit him as it used to. It’s a cold night, in his memories. It doesn’t feel that way though, with the others close. Balin is telling them a story of the days of old. Fili and Kili can’t resist poking and prodding their uncle, who is brooding in the distance. Dwalin has his axe in hand, and he’s surveying the fields in the distance for danger. In Bilbo’s dreams, danger doesn’t come. They stay forever, together. He looks upon Thorin for as long as he likes. The light never leaves Thorin’s eyes. 

No one really touches Bilbo anymore. He hadn’t really noticed it, how often the dwarves would pull each other in for an embrace. He hadn’t noticed how often they would jostle and jab, never content to simply sit still. There was an impropriety about it, almost. It used to bother him, at the very beginning, then he simply forgot about it, it simply became a part of his life. A part of him, like any other. Now it is missing. 

Bilbo is reminded of it when he waters his plants in the garden. He touches the leaves, the stems, and the flowers. _Plant your trees, watch them grow._ Thorin had said that to him. It would do him good to remember, Bilbo thinks, after every winter, a spring comes again. He remembers the comfort of Thorin’s embrace, his acceptance, and grief threatens to overcome him. It speaks to him in the voice of Smaug, and says, imperiously: _You are weak and powerless as ever. How will you live when he does not?_

“You will not succeed,” Bilbo says aloud, challenging his own sorrow, “You will not.” 

After the frost melts the buds come up from the ground. He’s a Baggins of Bag-End. Also, all of this--the wallowing, it’s not what Thorin would want. 

What can real love do but endure? Bilbo asks himself. He sets the house straight. Then the grounds. He restocks the cellar. He makes do with what he has and tries not to always think of what he has not. 

When he fails, he turns to paper and ink. Bilbo’s always been a decent artist, though not formally trained. He racks his memory for each and every face, and he draws them. Thorin’s portrait he saves for last, and spends hours laboring over the likeness. He chooses to draw him smiling, as he was on the best days, even though Bilbo loved him just the same on the worst. It takes days to shade the dark hair. Some tendrils of it were white, Bilbo remembers that. It had a slight wave to it, a hint of curl. It had been surprisingly soft, less coarse than it might look, though Bilbo doesn’t quite know how to show that in a drawing. He wishes he had that skill. What he can do is put a little glow in Thorin’s eyes. When it’s done he forgives himself for staring too long. It’s decent. Maybe just okay. Pales before the real thing of course, what Thorin was, living and breathing. No prison or dungeon could hold him, mere paper definitely could not. 

Bilbo’s hand starts to shake as he writes the name. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. King Under the Mountain. It’s what he should write, Bilbo knows that. It’s only respectful. Maybe one day these portraits can go along with the book he plans to write, and fall into some historical compendium. What else could he write, anyway, if he could? Thorin, my friend, my leader, my champion. Chief pain-in-the-neck perhaps? Certainly not. There are certain things that can hardly be said, let alone written. Thorin, my lost and lasting love. 

Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. Months into years. Thorin is with Bilbo when he walks. He’s behind the quickening of his step, the extra drive he has to make every round through the trees faster, to make himself stronger. He’s with him when he walks among other hobbits, feeling heavier and lighter than everyone else at the same time. He’s with him, always. His quiet strength, brooding determination, pigheaded stubbornness, his loyalty, colors the recesses of Bilbo’s mind, makes him laugh to himself as he takes a smoke. Sometimes, it makes him weep. 

One day, Bilbo knows he will be too old to visit the Lonely Mountain again. Every year there’s a reason not to go. First for his own sake, then for Frodo’s. Of course another part of him can’t bear to go back. Thorin, and most of the old company, would not be there. Could he bear it? Going back to their old haunts, follow the same perilous road without the company of his friends? Without _him_? 

Sometimes, he’s angry about it. About all of it. Fili and Kili died young, way too young. They were practically the age Frodo is now. Even if Thorin had lived, he would have been broken. Bilbo sees that now, because losing Frodo would break him. It’s still unfair. He should have been faster, quicker. He should have saved what he loved from that desolate fate. And even before that, he should have said more. 

Thorin knew, Bilbo knew that. Thorin knew that Bilbo loved him. He still should have said it. Clearer, especially in those last days, when Thorin had gone mad and doubted everything in the world. He should have told Thorin what he wanted. A home in the mountain. To stay by his side. Nothing more, nothing else. The pleasure of his company. His mornings and evenings. For that he would have given up it all. His share of the treasure, the king’s jewel, even yes, the One Ring, he would part with that too. _All for you._

“A kingly gift,” Gandalf had said about the mithril shirt, rather pointedly, “He did not want you to feel any pain.” 

“He should have kept it for himself, fat lot of good it did giving it to me,” Bilbo had replied bitterly. “Maybe it could have saved him.” 

“In the end,” Gandalf had mused, “I think he was saved in a way. He came back to himself. You played no small part in that, if I may say so.” 

Bilbo knew what the wizard meant by that. _I did get to save him. I did protect him that day._ The thought provides peace. _He saved me too. He loved me too._ His heart, at last, is calm. 

**Author's Note:**

> im super emo about them right now since i just finished watching botfa, i have read the book too but it was a while back, leave me a line if you liked this, again, im super sad, and i need catharsis


End file.
